The Mistletoe Is Bleeding
by GreenCookie
Summary: There are children playing in the drift, can you see them? The Potter kids, the product of an unspoken, unbreakable peace agreement. But every year, she still sees Draco Malfoy under the Christmas tree, the shadow of everything she’s sacrificed for them,


Disclaimer: Anything appearing here that has previously appeared in any other form does not belong to me. No copyright infringement intended.

AN: Pure unadulterated fan fiction time has allowed me to produce this. And even though this was written too quickly for comfort and I absolutely loathe writing in first person, I do adore Checkmated. This is written for their Holiday Challenge 2004.

Dedicated profusely to Mithborien, as always, wonderful and lovely and to whom I will most definitely get her CD back to immediately and ASAP, to Soph, who without I may have been laughed at alone, to Abigail for always understanding, to Princess for always being there, for Tiddums (Val), may we always go through our obscure crazes together, to Christina, Kelvin and John for putting up with my terribly wonderful singing.

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The Mistletoe Is Bleeding

It's snowing again.

And god, it's beautiful the way the flakes fall, all white and serene, spinning a landscape that's dreamy and endless, so damn innocent the way it covers the hard, grey ground so you can't see the dirt anymore. It's beautiful the way it hides and conceals all the hurt and crippled hopes from all these past years.

There are children playing in the drift, can you see them? People call them the Potter kids, and they're famous and loved for that, them with their black hair crossing against the white of the snow, smiles so wide, tossing snowballs, catching wild snowflakes on their tongues, drowning in the bliss of oblivion. The sound of their laughter makes something hurt inside me but _fuck_, I love them, even after everything everyone's sacrificed in order for them to live, even after all these Christmases. I love them because when the memories come back to haunt me, they're all I have left, they're _mine_ in the end.

Through the glass windows I watch them, and now they're running inside because even the winter wonderland nature weaves specially for the young can't keep them from the real feature of Christmas morning. Every year, I sit a little to the side as they unwrap their presents, meaningless fabrications of magic that nonetheless keeps them happy, sends the furtive light of smiles dancing across their faces, and I watch them shriek and play beneath the tree.

But then I see the blood and tears and pain hanging over their heads, dripping from Christmas baubles of times gone past, tinsel that only shines and sparkles with the darkness of liquid hurt.

Every year, I see him.

I see the tall slender form of him, standing tall and proud as hell beneath that tree, the sharp white shock of his hair against the dark of the boughs, his eyes glittering in respect of fairy lights. He's wearing green and black robes, chock full of Slytherin pride as always.

In fact, whenever I dare myself to remember, that was probably his problem. He was Slytherin through and through, too Slytherin to be great. Ambition rode too fast and too furious in him, consumed him, arrested his soul and in the end, he was nothing but ambition. He lost his friends, his family, lost everything but his name and that to everyone else was tainted, that was nothing. He was no longer living anymore; he was only existing, existing solely for cause and ambition.

When even his house turned against him, afraid by his need and greed, they asked me why I loved him still. Sometimes I told them it was cause I was crazy and that insanity was a genetic trait passed down through seven generations of my family. It would have explained a lot, saved me a lot of trouble. I could have just succumbed to the reality of my own mental instability and turned myself in, allowed myself to be locked up at St. Mungo's with nothing but the fading colours of pretty flowers and the thick, shady hum of a nearly empty room.

But at night, when it was harder to lie to the shadows and the moon and the naked, agonizing touch of his body against mine, I told him the truth. I told him it was because he was different from the rest of them. Because he had made something of himself even through the discrimination and hate. Because he had entrusted his entire life to a cause however much others hated him for it. Because he taught me that it was possible to give up everything you had, everything you needed, wanted, loved, for something you believed in.

But I never got the chance to tell him that was the reason when I killed him.

The room was filled with wilted people, forced smiles and tension, ladies sipping champagne politely and spitting it back out discretely in case it had been drugged or poisoned. No one had touched the food, and the Kris Kindles laid unopened. It was a time of fear, terror, wartime danger and no one believed in Santa anymore. Sniffing, I smelt hard tang and bitterness and I knew people were waiting for something to happen.

I was that something and sometimes I wonder whether they knew that.

The tree towered in one corner, staidly decorated, and he turned to me, all smiles and all charisma, all I ever wanted but could never have. Mistletoe leered from the ceiling and somewhere someone was singing Silent Night in harsh, strained tones.

_Long time no see, sweetheart. What have you been up to?_

_Oh, nothing much. Just planning to kill you cause you're endangering our ideas of justice and equality. How bout you?_

It didn't take much and it didn't take long, just a few quick slashes of the wand ripping through porcelain skin, just one moment for me to close my eyes so I couldn't see my own savage reflection in his accusing blue ones.

But later, when screams were vibrating fortissimo in the air and in my ear, and glass shattering in the distance, when there was a _fucking cold, dead body at my feet _and blood dribbling from his cold, dead chest, when they dared to take my hand and tell me it was okay, it kind of hurt. And Harry held me, crushed me against his body so I couldn't move, could hardly breath and god, I don't know about your heart breaking and stuff like that but something inside was crying to the end of fucking hell, and I didn't reckon it would have ever stop.

I got married that night, got married in a room filled with the unforgiving shine of red and green cracker foils, baubles assaulted with glitter, people staring at me like they never knew me. I stood there with champagne soaked into the carpet, blood on Christmas tinsel, the folded silhouette of pale, damaged limbs and blond hair beside me and said my vows.

_Of course I do, you stupid bastard. There's death in this room and guilt as gravity, all so I could marry Harry bloody Potter, so why the fucking hell are you asking me this stupid question?_

And then we were wizard and wife.

How many girls, maybe guys, have fantasized about sleeping with Harry Potter? _The _great, wonderful, _fabulous_ Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived? I admit I might have, when I was nothing but a hormone driven girl, too easily swept away by a legend and the nonchalant, unconscious flip of black hair. But everyone grows up, people change. Boxes are drawn and definitions are set. Lust and love no longer meant the same thing to me and on our wedding night, the salt of his sweat sluicing down my skin meant nothing, and I can only the remember the dark rise and fall of his back against the red of the moon and then the silence of the night.

Harry catches me staring at the tree with glazed eyes, and as he does every year without fail, he sidles over till he sits beside me and we melt into one person, one being till I can hardly tell one heartbeat from the other. I know I did the right thing. He doesn't have to remind me. The union of two people from opposing sides, the union of us, was the only thing that could have possibly brought the shift of faith and peace to our war torn world and who cares anyway if two Slytherin lives and loves are shattered if it means the Gryffindors win?

The snowflakes are dying on the window panes, leaving frosted skeletal remains. Harry weaves his fingers through mine. We exchange no words as we watch the children laugh and play, the product and cause of an unspoken, unbreakable peace accord.

So that's it then. I gave up everything I had, everything I needed, wanted, loved, for something I believed in.

This is in memory of you then, Draco. Thanks and love, Pansy Parkinson.

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AN: Pure angst and no warning so sorry. Also, thanks to all authors, fan fiction or otherwise, who have implicitly influenced my writing. And also, I think first person is starting to grow on me. And also again, I know I have a terrible habit of abusing commas so forgive me. And I'm going to stop saying also now. 

Chocolate ice cream is man's greatest achievement, for sure.

Thanks all for reading, and please review!


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